The Framingham Fiend

Book 6: Colin Pendragon Mystery

by Gregory Harris

Genres: Historical Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery; Private Investigators

Synopsis

Of all the ghastly crimes in Victorian London, none are as infamous—or unsolvable—as those of Jack the Ripper . . .
 
The murder scene is chillingly familiar. A young prostitute has been slaughtered in her flat on Framingham Street in the East End. It’s not the first time Scotland Yard has seen a murder like this. But with the help of Colin Pendragon and his loyal partner Ethan Pruitt, they hope it will be the last . . .
 
Word of the Ripper-esque crime has begun to spread across London, sparking a fresh wave of fear, dread, and panic. Two prostitutes have already been killed. But when a third victim is claimed, Colin and Ethan are forced to explore every possibility—from the opium dens of Whitechapel to the darkest corners of the London morgue. For Colin, the answer will prove to be as elusive—and deadly—as the Ripper himself . . .
 
Praise for Gregory Harris and the Colin Pendragon Mysteries
 
“Well-paced [with] unusual twists and turns . . . the interplay between Pendragon and Pruitt is interesting and complex.”
—Mystery Scene on The Arnifour Affair
 
“An incredibly pleasing mystery . . . the author nails it yet again.”
—Suspense Magazine on The Bellingham Bloodbath

Release date: May 29, 2018

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

The sight before us was worse than anything I had ever seen. More than a dozen years trundling along in Colin’s wake, watching him solve innumerable murders, extortions, malicious acts; none of it prepared me for what we saw when we entered Amelia Linton’s Whitechapel room. The scene was so grisly that Superintendent Tottenshire, the man who had beseeched Colin and me to assist Scotland Yard with this murder, had demurred to join us, leaving us in the hands of his newly minted inspector, Maurice Evans. That alone should have forewarned me.

“The landlady, a Mrs. Simpson, found her this morning,” Inspector Evans was explaining in a spare, rudimentary tone as Colin and I hovered just inside the doorway. “She had a part-time job at the Coventry flower market, but the landlady says Miss Linton went out most nights to earn extra wages. Told us she’d been sending money to her mother and siblings in Leith near Edinburgh. That’s what brought Mrs. Simpson up to Miss Linton’s room this morning. She says Miss Linton was never late for tea before she hurried off to the flower market each morning—no matter what she’d been up to the night before. . . .” The inspector’s voice trailed off.

I found my eyes drawn back to the small dining table where Miss Linton’s mutilated body lay. Her head was thrown back as though she was in the midst of a great laugh save for the fact that there was no such expression on her face or in her eyes—which were diminished and unseeing as they bulged from their sockets. That was when it became evident that her head was cantilevered back not from merriment but because her neck had been carved nearly down to the spine, leaving its attachment to her body tenuous at best. The swath of blood that had rushed from the wound had stained the upper half of her chest, coating it with a black, viscous sheen that held an all too familiar metallic tang.

“She is quite like the superintendent told you the first victim was last week.” Inspector Evans was still speaking. “She was also torn open from clavicle to groin with most of her innards . . .”

He did not finish his sentence, nor did he need to, for it was exactly as had been described to us not an hour prior. Miss Linton’s torso lay open, her rib cage pried apart so it was plain to see that where her internal organs should have been, there was nothing but darkness and blackened gore—the whole of it flattened incongruously as a result of the unnatural void. If there could be any doubt about what we were witnessing it was quickly dispelled by the arrangement on the floor around the table, a tableau so gruesome that I believe my very breath ceased for a period of time.

Just as with the first victim, this woman’s missing organs—one after the other—had been meticulously placed around the table’s circumference: heart, lungs, stomach, liver, kidneys, a tangle of intestine, pancreas . . . I could not contain the gasp that rose of its own volition from my throat.

“It all looks so very particular,” Colin muttered. “As if the killer was looking for something.”

I blanched, glancing over at him to see whether he was trying to ease the thick tension, only to find an expression of thoughtful consideration on his face that was matched by a similar countenance on the inspector’s.

“Only the Devil knows what lurks in the mind of a man capable of such a thing as this,” Inspector Evans said after a moment.

Colin took a step into the room. “Then the challenge will be ours to discover the same thing.”

I sipped a quick breath and stepped forward, stopping at the door to search its jamb for signs of forced entry, though truthfully I was doing everything I could to avoid looking at the carnage.

“How many of your men have already trampled over this scene?” Colin asked from somewhere near the table, his words disturbing the silence enough to make me jump slightly.

“Far more than you will like,” came the answer, and I could tell by the tone of the inspector’s voice that he was displeased himself. “I am afraid the superintendent does not hold to your opinion of contamination at these scenes. The more eyes pledged to a case, the more men committed to shifts walking these same streets, the better he feels.”

“Look how well that served him during the Ripper murders,” Colin murmured.

“You don’t think—” The inspector was interrupted by a harsh, disapproving exhalation from out in the hallway before he could finish.

“What an appalling sight,” Denton Ross hissed, tugging on the white lapels of his coroner’s coat and stiffening his spine. But it was not lost on me that he was staring at Colin and not at the body.

“You will give us a moment,” Inspector Evans snapped, obviously having noticed the same thing. “Are you finished here, Mr. Pendragon?”

“Have photographs been taken?” Colin asked, coming back toward me.

The inspector turned to one of the young bobbies standing just outside the door, ensuring that none of the uninvited curious gained entry, and the young man informed us that a photographer had been there not half an hour before our arrival. The news did not please Colin.

“So we will have photographs of a well-contaminated murder scene taken some seven hours after the discovery of the body. It scarcely seems worth the effort,” he groused. “I should like to see your autopsy report as soon as you are finished, Mr. Ross,” he said as he swept to the door.

“I do not report to you,” Mr. Ross grunted as he moved over to the body, his assistant—the lanky, pock-marked Miles Kindall—following in his wake.

“Mr. Pendragon and Mr. Pruitt are here in an official Scotland Yard capacity,” the inspector barked. “You will remember that, sir.”

Mr. Ross tsked as he stood over the body. “Well, this is a buggered mess. Get some pans and a bucket or two, Mr. Kindall. This isn’t going to go easily.”

“Please proceed with restraint, Mr. Ross,” the inspector warned. “You will notice the newspapers have yet to be notified.”

A thin sneer tugged at a corner of Mr. Ross’s rubbery lips. “You’re worried that it’s the Ripper again, aren’t you. The Yard’s unfinished business come back for its due.”

“Are you an investigator now?” Colin asked, his voice tinged with distaste. “Because you are speaking absurdities.”

Mr. Ross snickered, and the very sound of it made my stomach seize with fury. “So insistent, Mr. Pendragon.”

“Enough, Mr. Ross,” the inspector cut in. “I’ll not have you inflaming this city with something we have no notion about.”

“Oh, come now . . .”

“You will deliver your report first thing tomorrow morning, Mr. Ross,” Colin spoke up, “or I will have the Yard assign your assistant to take the lead.”

Mr. Kindall reappeared in the doorway as though summoned, a bucket hanging from each hand with various metal pans poking out and one tucked firmly beneath his right arm. “What?”

“You are on the verge of promotion,” Colin answered, and was gone.

“That ruddy bastard.” Mr. Ross seethed before Inspector Evans could hold up a hand.

“Collect the remains and get on your way,” he reiterated. “And we will have the results of your autopsy first thing tomorrow.”

I did not wait for the response but hurried to find Colin, having caught the sudden unsteadiness of his gait as he had left the room. There was no doubt that the wounds he had recently suffered at the hands of Charlotte Hutton—two bullets to the chest and a crack to the back of his skull—were still demanding their due. I feared it was too soon for him to take a case.

The ride back to our flat was silent, as I kept quiet rather than harangue him about the frailness of his health. I held my tongue, watching the neighborhoods slowly improve as we clattered from Whitechapel to Kensington, all the while pledging that I would shoulder the greater burden of this case.

“My father’s here,” he mumbled as our cab slowed, and I too spotted the black Town Coach with its team of horses and the Pendragon lion and griffin crest on its side.

“I wonder what he wants?” I said, though I was sure it was to check on Colin. Sir Atherton had been by nearly every day since Colin’s release from hospital two weeks prior, though he always managed to scrounge up some alternate reason for coming.

When Colin and I reached our study at the top of the stairs, it was to find Sir Atherton in Colin’s chair before the fire, as always, and Mrs. Behmoth across from him on the settee, the two of them deep in what looked to be overwrought conversation. There was a full service of tea laid out before them, as well as a plate of raspberry and lemon tartlets. One pleasant adjunct of Colin’s well-wishers was the fact that Mrs. Behmoth had taken to baking daily. We were ever prepared for visitors now and even happier when there were none to share the spoils with.

“Well . . .” Sir Atherton’s pale gray eyes drifted over to us as he smiled. “Here are my boys at last.”

Mrs. Behmoth shifted around and scowled the instant her eyes fell on Colin. “Ya look like shite.” Her eyes darted to me. “What’re ya thinkin’, keepin’ ’im out ’alf the bleedin’ day when ’e’s still tryin’ ta get well?”

“He is not my keeper,” Colin informed her curtly as he dropped onto the settee next to her.

Her eyes narrowed. “Well, ya still look like shite.”

“You do need to take care of yourself,” Sir Atherton spoke up.

“Are you here for a reason, or are the two of you simply testing my patience?” Colin muttered, picking up two unused teacups stacked to one side of the tray and pouring us tea.

“Besides checking on how you are getting along, I am actually here on another matter,” he answered just before he took a nip of his tea.

“Well, thank heavens. I’ll not be coddled.” He thrust my teacup at me.

“Yer too ornery ta be coddled,” Mrs. Behmoth announced as she pushed herself off the settee, grabbed the teapot, and headed down the stairs.

“That woman is infuriating,” Colin bothered to state as he turned back toward his father. “You were saying . . . ?” And if I hadn’t already been aware of his flagging vitality I could most certainly hear it in his voice.

Sir Atherton gave a thin smile, and I suspected he had caught it as well. “Do you remember a gentleman by the name of Braxton Everclear when we were living in Bombay? He was a junior diplomat who worked in my office and used to come by the house quite a bit after your mother died. Had a son a few years older than you named Henry.”

“I remember Braxton. He was very kind. But I don’t remember a son.”

“His boy never lived in India. I suppose they thought he might do better in London, but he got into quite a bit of trouble anyway and finally died some years back after living what can only be described as a wayward life.”

“Wayward . . . ?” Colin repeated, though I was sure we both knew what Sir Atherton meant.

“He struggled with an addiction to alcohol and opium that brought him to a sorrowful end.” Sir Atherton shifted his eyes to me and offered a gentle smile. “Henry did not have the fortitude to conquer his demons,” he added for my benefit, though it was the love of his son that had truly made it possible for me to vanquish my own. “Braxton and his late wife were devastated. They pledged themselves to care for Henry’s only child, a boy born out of wedlock named Quentin, though he could not be properly claimed as their grandson.”

“What a horror to convention,” Colin mumbled with distaste.

“Braxton has been sending the boy money ever since,” Sir Atherton continued without comment, “encouraging him to attend university, but the lad has been drifting, and Braxton has struggled to have an impact.”

“How old is Quentin?” I asked.

“Nineteen. He was living in Whitechapel with his mother until recently.”

“Whitechapel . . .” Colin muttered thoughtfully. “Why isn’t he living with her any longer?”

“She became ill and died. It has left the boy on his own.”

“And has Mr. Everclear offered his grandson the refuge he deserves, or has propriety forbid him from doing so?” Colin asked, his tone disapproving.

“He has tried to do the best that he can,” his father answered patiently. “You cannot judge him for the tenets of a society he does not control.”

“You needn’t speak to me of such things. Ethan and I would be their victim as well if we did not strive so for invisibility.” He brought a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, and I could tell that he had reached the limits of his patience.

“You were telling us about Quentin Everclear,” I said to Sir Atherton. “Does Braxton have some concerns about his grandson?”

“He does.” Sir Atherton nodded. “He’s not heard from the boy in over two weeks now. And what he finds most distressing is that the first of the month has come and gone without word. He has been paying the boy’s rent since his mother’s death, but this month the lad failed to come around and pick it up. Braxton sent a messenger to inquire about the boy, but the man was turned away without a scrap of information. I just thought . . .” He hesitated, his eyes settling on mine, making his apprehension about asking anything of his ailing son clear.

“Your thought is well placed,” I spoke up. “I will go down to Whitechapel myself and see what I can learn. Do you have an address?”

“I do.” He pulled out a folded square of paper from his jacket pocket.

“The two of us will go,” Colin said, his voice contrite as Mrs. Behmoth could be heard coming up the stairs. “We will find the young man and deliver him to his grandfather. You really mustn’t mind me,” he continued, “I do seem to be a bit short of patience today.”

“Today?!” Mrs. Behmoth parroted as she reached the landing with the steaming teapot clutched in one hand.

“I have grown weary of healing,” he allowed, throwing Mrs. Behmoth a fierce scowl as she settled back onto the settee and began refilling our cups.

“Then you should let Ethan handle this business with Quentin Everclear,” Sir Atherton suggested. “I am sure it will amount to little more than a few questions. Nothing to trouble yourself over.”

“And yet here you are asking for our help,” Colin needled before releasing a sigh. “Besides, it is hardly a bother, as we have just accepted a case in Whitechapel anyway.”

“Wot?!” While Mrs. Behmoth was the first to speak, I noticed the same question already forming on Sir Atherton’s lips.

“We shall be working with Scotland Yard to solve two recent murders. One a week ago and the other last night.”

“I don’t remember reading about two murders . . .” Sir Atherton started to say.

“You ain’t well enough ta be runnin’ all over the place chasin’ down some nutter. Are ya outta yer bloody mind?” Mrs. Behmoth swung her anger to me. “Wot in the ’ell are ya thinkin’, lettin’ ’im do that?!”

“Excuse me,” Colin interrupted harshly. “Ethan does not let me do anything. I answer neither to him nor to you. I am perfectly capable of assessing my own health, thank you very much.”

“Well, yer the color a wax and ya lost too much weight.”

“Weight?!” Colin repeated, flexing an arm with a prideful scowl.

Mrs. Behmoth stood up and waved him off, scowling at Sir Atherton as she headed for the stairs. “’E’s yer fault, ya know. You were too easy on’im.” And having had her say she stomped down the steps, notably disregarding the responsibility she’d had in helping to bring him up.

“Do I really look thin?” Colin asked as he pushed himself off the settee and stared into the mantel mirror.

“It’s just a bit of weight,” his father answered before I could derail the topic. “Now, what of these Whitechapel murders . . . ?”

“The Yard kept the first one quiet, but they’ll have no such luck with this second,” Colin replied in a single breath, turning and heading for the back of the room where my desk was—and his weights. “Two women carved up clavicle to pelvis with their insides removed.” He snatched up the dumbbells, and I saw him wince as he tried to curl them toward his body.

“Their insides removed?” Sir Atherton’s face curdled.

“The killer placed them around their bodies like some sort of ritual,” I explained. “Should you be doing that?” I called to Colin.

“It was made to look like the work of the Ripper,” Colin added, ignoring my question.

“The Ripper?!” Sir Atherton clanged his teacup back onto the table. “After all these years. Does Scotland Yard really think that maniac is back?” Colin did not answer, persisting in pumping the weights even though a sheen had already sprung up on his brow and his face continued to register obvious pain. “Put those damned things down!” his father suddenly roared.

Colin’s arms hung at his sides, and his expression stung, though whether from surprise or contrition I could not tell. I busied myself topping off our tea and in a moment was aware that Colin had dropped back onto the settee. “Another tartlet?” I said to Sir Atherton, hoping I did not sound as awkward as I felt.

“I shouldn’t.” He gave me a stiff grin. “I am round enough already.” He picked up Colin’s teacup and held it across to him. “I want to know if you believe it is the Ripper.”

Colin took the cup and leaned back, his fatigue evident. “It is extremely unlikely.”

“Unlikely . . . ? Why?”

“A man driven by such urges to do what he did could not simply stop himself for seven years. Not unless he was in prison or committed to an asylum.”

Sir Atherton let out a deep breath and shook his head. “This would indeed be a scourge. If that fiend has returned . . .”

“Which is why the Yard has sought my help.” Colin glanced over at me, and the slightest grin crooked a corner of his mouth. “Me and Ethan.”

“In that”—his father declared—“Scotland Yard has chosen wisely. But I must insist you see to yourself first. You will serve no one if you fall ill or aggravate your wounds.”

Colin allowed a wistful smile. “Very well, but there is something I have been meaning to ask of you. . . .”

“And what would that be?”

“Charlotte Hutton,” he said, his voice rumbling his distaste. “The last we know of her is that the train she was on the night she shot me was headed for Dover. We can assume she was headed for the Continent, since her funds remain frozen in Zurich, but how much longer will the Swiss agree to hold them? Can you continue to encourage them to cooperate?”

“I shall do whatever I can.”

“Good. Because I should very much like to go to Zurich the moment this Whitechapel case is completed. It is well past time for that woman to pay for the deaths she caused and her attempt on my own life.”

Sir Atherton flinched ever so slightly. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to let the international authorities attend to that woman? You cannot be expected to remain dispassionate where she is concerned.”

Colin’s eyebrows rose. “You doubt my integrity?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Sir Atherton pushed himself out of Colin’s chair and headed for the staircase. “I will do what I can with the Swiss authorities,” he said when he reached the steps, “but I will have your word, Colin. You will take care. I will not lose you and neither will Ethan.”

Without realizing it, I found myself holding my breath as I waited for Colin’s response. What was it I feared that he might say? Yet when he did finally answer—“You have it”—I was unaccountably relieved. It was a promise to his father, and I knew the significance that held for him.

The first eruption took place that very evening with the release of the Times’s late edition heralding the two Whitechapel murders. The tension throughout the city became immediately palpable as the once-familiar headline was again being shouted along the streets. However, the second, and worse, event came the following morning in the form of an unrelenting pounding on our door downstairs.

“What the bloody hell?!” Colin cursed as he bolted upright in bed in the span of an instant. “What time is it?”

I checked my watch on the night table with far less vigor than he was showing. “Nearly six,” I managed to mumble.

He threw the covers back and popped out with more enthusiasm than I had seen from him since the shooting. I watched as he stormed around the room, pulling on his underclothes and then hurriedly shrugging into a suit. “Aren’t you getting up?”

“There isn’t anyone I want to see at this hour. I barely want to see you.”

“Well, you’d best roust yourself, as this is not likely to be good.”

“All right,” I answered with a yawn before finally pushing myself into a sitting position.

The next voice to be heard was that of Mrs. Behmoth shouting from some distance, almost assuredly the midpoint of the stairs. “Ya got about a dozen a them newspaper arses out on the porch. Ya want me ta tell ’em ta bugger off?”

Colin yanked our bedroom door open before turning and glaring back at me. “Are you coming, or would you rather I line them up in here?”

I crawled from the bed with a great sigh and moved to the doorway next to him. “Have them wait outside,” I hollered back to Mrs. Behmoth. “And tell them we’ll join them shortly.”

Colin looked me over, one of his eyebrows arched. “I wonder what they’ll make of the sight of you.”

I gave him a scowl before retreating into the room and yanking on a suit of my own. Within a handful of minutes I had joined him in the study, though I struggled to look as alert as he did.

“Whatever this is, we had best tread carefully,” he warned as we started down the stairs. “These men will print anything to sell another of their paper.”

“Now, ain’t you two jest a sight,” Mrs. Behmoth interrupted from the doorway to the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up to her forearms and her hands and apron already dusted with flour, a newspaper tucked under one arm. “I can’t believe I’m seein’ the two a you up before the milk’s delivered. It’s almost respectable.”

“Do be sure to have the tea ready when we come back inside, or I’ll not be respectable for long,” Colin advised. And satisfied with his response he swept the door open and stepped outside without a further glance in her direction, missing the fact that she was now holding the newspaper out toward us.

“What . . . ?” I started to say, but it was too late. He was already outside, and before I could get a second word out of my mouth I heard a man fairly shout at him:

“Is it true the Ripper’s returned?!”

Mrs. Behmoth gave a slim shrug as she tossed the folded newspaper onto the shelf of the hall tree and headed back for her kitchen. Even folded I could make out the bulk of Colin’s name and the totality of the word Ripper. Our involvement, it seemed, had been leaked.

“Wherever did you hear such nonsense?” I heard Colin say in a distinctly disapproving tone.

“Are you saying it isn’t true then?” the same voice pressed as I joined him on our small porch.

I was amazed to find that Mrs. Behmoth had not exaggerated, as there were indeed fourteen men hovering at the bottom of our steps, each carrying a notepad of one form or another and a pencil. There was little else to distinguish them, although I did recognize the gentleman from the Times, as he had once done a florid piece on Colin.

The man who had shouted the question was young and ordinary, save for the elaborate waxed mustache that curled out from the sides of his lips. “Can we quote you on that, Mr. Pendragon?” he pushed again.

“You and your conspirators have come pounding on my door at an ungodly hour with your agenda.” Colin glared at him. “What is your name?”

“My name?” The young man looked taken aback as he glanced around for a moment, as though beseeching a cohort to lend a hand. “I’m Clement Triffler with the Sun. Now will you answer my question?”

Colin answered with a hollow laugh that carried not a shred of mirth in it. “By asking your name, Mr. Trifling, I have simply brought us to the same level: You know my name, and now I know yours. However, if you wish me to address your shouted questions you will first answer the single one I have put to you: Wherever did you hear such rubbish about Jack the Ripper?”

“It was the coroner.” An older man standing to the side of the eager Mr. Triffler spoke up. “I’m Oswalt Northcliffe with the Daily Telegraph. I spoke with Mr. Ross last night once he’d completed the autopsy on Miss Linton, and he informed me that Scotland Yard believes the Ripper has returned. He said it’s why they’ve brought you in to assist with the investigation. Is it true?”

“Thank you for your gallantry, Mr. Northcliffe,” Colin replied, “but if you knew me at all you would know that I do not . . . ever . . . assist in an investigation. I work for myself, which means I assist no one. Nevertheless, I was consulting with Inspector Maurice Evans yesterday at the scene of Miss Linton’s murder. He sought my opinion on a few matters. . . .”

“What sort of matters?” Mr. Triffler spouted before Colin could finish.

Colin slid his eyes to the young man once again. “Ah, Mr. Trifling . . .”

“It’s Triff—” he started to correct, but Colin was not to be stopped.

“. . . if Inspector Evans would like to discuss with you the matters he discussed with me, then he is free to do so, but I’ll not relinquish his confidence. Which is why he sought my advice rather than that of Mr. Ross.” He offered a thin-lipped smile.

“But Mr. Pendragon”—it was the man I recognized from the Times, Mr. Hatch or Thatch—“will you not give us any statement? If only to quell the public hysteria.”

Colin’s face soured. “If there is hysteria, it is the result of careless wordsmithing by you men. You clearly do not intend to report the truth when you print the ramblings of a man like Denton Ross without the slightest care. I’ll not be quoted in the wake of him.” And to ensure these men understood that he meant what he said, he turned and stalked back into the house, kicking the door shut.

“Nice going, Triffler,” someone standing farther back grumbled.

“Would you be willing to give us a comment, Mr. Pruitt?” the man from the Times called to me. “Now that Mr. Pendragon has admonished us, it would be nice to come away with something for our efforts.”

I suspected that Mr. Hatch . . . or Thatch . . . was the only one amongst this crowd who even knew my name. “Very well,” I answered rather more brusquely than I had meant. “Let me tell you three things, two of which I hope you will commit to memory. First, I will remind the lot of you that Mr. Pendragon was seriously wounded not three weeks ago on the train platform at Victoria Station when he was shot several times during the escape of Charlotte Hutton. A bit of empathy would be appreciated before you pound on our door at this hour with your hyperbole.”

I glowered at them before I continued. “Second, Mr. Pendragon has been a proponent of your periodicals for over a dozen years. In that time, with all of the news conferences he has given, explaining his cases and detailing their outcomes, I should think he has earned some level of courtesy that might keep some of you from being so eager to publish any bit of nonsense without checking with him first.

“And last of all . . .” But if I’d had a third point at the start of my scolding I lost it as my eyes fell on Mr. Triffler’s unyielding face. “Last of all”—I heard myself repeat—“you are never again to bang on this door before eight unless the building is ablaze.”

One corner of Mr. Triffler’s lips ticked up, accentuated by his preposterous curling moustache, and to keep myself from attempting to remove the smugness of his grin I turned with the sharpness of a palace guard and hastened inside.

“It’s on the front page of the Sun and probably every other paper,” Colin groaned as I barreled inside, nearly colliding with him.

“I tried ta show ya,” Mrs. Behmoth spoke as she exited the kitchen with a tray full of tea and warm scones, heading for the stairs.

Colin flipped the paper toward me, and I gaped at the headline: RIPPER RETURNS!—PENDRAGON AIDS GRISLY INVESTIGATION. It stared at me like an accusato. . .